1440 Minutes 'til Dawn
by bjxmas
Summary: 7.23 Survival of the Fittest tag – Cut off and alone, Dean reflects on Purgatory, Sam and the fracturing of his relationship with Castiel. Dean's inner dialogue interrupted by deadly battles with the beasts of Purgatory. He and Cas trying to come to terms. Dean's job now to survive. No one wants to do this alone. Hurt!Dean
1. Morning Has Broken

_Written for Supernaturalville's 2012 Summer Hellatus Challenge - To depict 24 Hours of Dean in Purgatory - A Day in the Life. From what I've heard of spoilers, which isn't much, I'm sure this will be AU to what the show gives us, but hey, it's summer and we need s-o-m-e-t-h-i-n-g to keep us going! Oct. 3rd can't arrive soon enough!_

xxx

"_Often the test of courage is not to die but to live._" – Vittorio Alfieri

1440 Minutes 'til Dawn

Chapter One – Morning Has Broken

The thing is, dawn offers no refuge, no safety…nothing beyond another notch on the hilt of his knife. Another day spent, another 24 hours survived, leaving _another_ 24 hours to survive. Each mark on the handle of his knife his way of keeping track. The small notches crowding upon one another, almost out of room. Another day in Purgatory, another day closer to…. He laughed, because that's what you did here. The absurdity and brutality colliding in a surreal haze of disbelief that could only be handled by not handling it, by guffawing at the crazy and finding a means to ignore the terror. Each day survived brought him closer to rescue, if Sam had anything to do with the outcome of his predicament, of that he was certain; or death, if the creatures stalking him had their way, again equally sure of their malicious intent. It was a race against time and the elements, seeing which won out: Winchester ingenuity or beastly savagery. All Dean could do was continue to fight and hopefully survive to greet another dawn.

Rest rarely came. A brief moment here or a treacherous lapse there, where closing his eyes might bring about the promised end. He was constantly on edge, always ready, bracing for the next rush of teeth and claws, for the onslaught and fury of thrashing limbs and brutal blows. For the foul stench of putrid breath as a hideous snout snarled and slobbered inches from his face, the beast finding its own humor in the situation.

He was sore and tired, so bloody tired. Worn down and wasted. Still, he kept his mind focused as he always did, on the job, on surviving, on not being torn limb from limb. He had no desire to be eviscerated and left to fertilize the forest…that is, after his chewy bits were devoured by the creatures living deep and dark within.

When he dared sleep it was perched high in the treetops, dangling precariously above it all, hidden within a blanket of leaves and the dark, or buried like a rat in a cave, his back against the wall and his hand forever clenched around the grip of his knife. His clothes rubbed with dirt and moss and whatever other stink he could find to try and mask his scent. Depending on the creatures he was currently eluding, it modestly worked or was a complete failure. Luck being the most compelling reason why he occasionally survived until morning without a fight.

The fight came more often than not, fast and furious, brutal and bloody, urgent and untimely. Brutal seemed to be the word of the day…each and every day.

When he stopped to ponder, when whimsy shook him free of his feelings of gloom and doom and he allowed himself to dream of another existence, he longed for a cheeseburger and pie. Such simple pleasures, denied…all but abandoned normally. But when his stomach took to rumbling and his lips grimaced at the thought of what's for dinner, he every so often found himself salivating for grease and cherry filling. For tender pie crust wrapped around succulent fruit and warm buns soaked in animal fat. For food he wanted to eat instead of the damn berries and bark he settled for. The only time he thought of Sam here, when he allowed himself to consider the horrendous concept of his brother stuck in this god-awful place, was when he mused over how Sam would handle the grazing of Purgatory.

Who would have thought Purgatory would bring Dean Winchester one-step closer to vegetarian?

Oh, there was the occasional meat. A beast that he allowed himself to consider the _other_ red meat. Close enough to beef to allow a hunter to crisp it up over a fire. Most of the critters he killed now were too tough and leathery to even consider eating, far beyond the realm of jerky, but there were a few that didn't turn his stomach quite as much. A few that were close enough in desperate times.

Cas was fortunate he didn't eat. Lucky enough to genie out and about too. While he was good as a lookout and handy for a warning if he wasn't preoccupied elsewhere, the angel had held tight to his newly formed pacifist views despite the inherent peril of Purgatory, becoming virtually helpless like a babe in the woods. At least Dean didn't have to concern himself with protecting him or worrying over the fragile angel. He found it was enough to worry about himself, not that he worried per se. He didn't have the energy or inclination to worry, not for him. On occasion his mind would again wander to Sam: where he was, how he was handling the separation, what would become of him if he couldn't retrieve his brother. Those thoughts came few and blessedly far between, especially as time wore on and no rescue materialized.

More often than not, all thought was tuned to surviving. Listening, reacting…fighting and killing…staving off the dying. Most days were dicey, pure luck with a smattering of skill allowing him to survive until dawn. The odds stacked against him, but then, that wasn't anything new, not for a Winchester. His amazing survival, again, nothing new, now commonplace even though each new day brought him closer to the probability that his luck would eventually run out. Skill can only take you so far in Purgatory. His expertise as a hunter and all the bold courage in the world wouldn't be able to prevent the inevitable for forever. He was outgunned and alone, one against many.

He wished he could say he appreciated dawn, the sun on his face, warmth on his aching joints. Purgatory didn't offer a typical sunrise, not like back on Earth. Here it was more gray, the absence of pitch black, the subtle introduction of something lighter.

When he needed more warmth, or on that rare occasion when he attempted to cook, he'd start a fire. That was always dangerous, the smell of it, the smoke. Sometimes he didn't care, he simply needed to hear the crackle, see the flames, feel that familiar control like when he and his brother used to salt and burn the undead. There were certain critters that were scared of fire, reacting badly to a flaming branch waved in their face. The dumb ones, or maybe not. Maybe the others were the ones who lacked intelligence, too oblivious to know they could be burnt black, that death was an option to be feared. Whatever the reason, they barreled forth, never slowing, only falling to a well-placed blade strike or total immolation. Continuing the charge even as their hides burned, resistant to the pain, relentless in their thirst for blood.

Fire was the one time Dean felt any power over the natural order. His intellect and ability to create his main advantage over the brawn and fierceness of the beasts of Purgatory. He was thankful for his trusty lighter secure in his front jeans pocket. When his mood turned dark, he'd wonder when the lighter fluid would run out and he'd be left with one worn book of matches, the last motel he and Sam stayed at advertised on the cover, The Restful Arms. That brought a smile during the lulls, when he would roll the matchbook in his hand, turning it over and reading the name, remembering his previous life, musing over how he longed for _that _turmoil over _this_ turmoil. At least there he had his brother by his side. He swore that if he ever got out of this hellhole, he'd never again gripe about the quality of the places they stayed at or the burdens of the job. Even a rock hard bed would be heaven to his weary frame now. And at least a fight held meaning back on Earth, a rightness and a sense of doing good. A purpose.

He longed for purpose again, something beyond self-preservation. Something more than simply surviving with nothing better to look forward to.

Surviving was becoming more and more about his personal skills, hand-to-hand combat and strategy. The tools of his trade slowly abandoning him, with no opportunity to restock.

He knew in time his lighter would become as effectively useless as his Colt, the last clip for his 911 running out of bullets within the first week. He still kept the gun, treasuring the familiar weight in his hand and against his side. It had been with him through every trial and heartache back in the real world, he'd hardly let it go now. Besides, he'd held back one bullet. _One._ Just in case. He didn't plan on using it, not unless things turned totally dire and proceeded downhill from there to massively fubared. He'd survived worse without giving up.

He'd survived Hell.

But it's good to have options. It all came down to control. Controlling what he could, holding tight to who he was.

Being ready.

Granted the weight of a fundamentally useless gun might slow him down marginally, but if he were going to die in this wretched place, then at least he'd die with a gun in his hand. He'd already come to that decision. Besides, you never knew when he might stumble across some lead he could melt down…that is if he then proceeded to run into the other necessary materials to forge bullets: fire hot enough and a container strong enough to hold the molten lead, along with the proper mold. A laundry list of wants and needs. A pipe dream really, but then, that's all he had in this godforsaken hellhole.

Still, Purgatory was better than Hell. In Hell they held all the power while he lacked all control. Endless torture and taunts and the waiting. Waiting for whatever Alastair and the other demons felt like doing to him that day, or week, or month. Here it was action over reaction. A choice. Simple decisions, four directions to travel in. He'd listen to the sounds of them watching him, look at the lay of the land, weigh the chance of surviving in any given direction before finally choosing his path for the day.

Sometimes it seemed liked he picked wrong, a massive wave of monsters along his chosen route, springing forth from the tree line and circling about. That's when his knife saw action, slicing and dicing, blood and guts soon covering his clothes and smeared across his skin, offering more smells, more grime. Sometimes after the end of a long day of killing and almost being killed, he'd long for scrubbing down in a blisteringly hot shower or soaking in a leisurely bath. He even briefly dreamed once of bubbles and poufy scents, his skin withered up from being submerged in the comfort of the water too long, clinging to the feel of being clean again even as reality pushed him to awaken and face the truth. He'd been on long hunts before, out in the wild, one with the elements. He'd been down and dirty for much of his life, but this was a new low.

He'd long ago forsaken trying to keep up appearances. His hair longer than it had ever been, his five o'clock shadow gone into a midnight beard. From the feel of him he was sure he must look like a mountain man, a Grizzly Adams or a Jeremiah Johnson. Looks didn't matter, as long as he stayed strong and fierce. As long as he stayed alive. That was his job now: surviving.

It was unavoidable that he'd acquired more scars during his time here but his only concern was to prevent infection. Strange with all the dirt and grime of this place, that didn't seem to be an issue. Not quite like Hell with it's magical healing abilities, but close.

He thought he was done for the third night. One creature getting too close, its long claws slicing through his gut, blood spraying everywhere. The pain immediate and immense, intolerable for anyone other than a hunter conditioned to pain. The adrenaline from that encounter had kept him on his feet as he sliced up that fugly. In the aftermath, with the creature gutted on the forest floor, he'd been gasping for breath, his left hand holding his guts in, his right still latched to his blade, sinking to the ground, preparing to die. Cas had hovered over him, talking nonsense as he was now prone to do, but in his own awkward manner providing desired companionship. His chatter his way of saying he cared. Dean at last able to admit, at least to himself, he didn't want to die alone. After tense minutes with neither able to stem the bleeding, he'd passed out from blood loss, only to awaken in the morning still alive. His searching hands finding only a slim scar beneath the crusted blood. The first of many now.

That's when he understood the parallel with Hell, how Purgatory worked.

On the seventh day the rains came, the sky crackling with dark thunder and ominous clouds, electricity piercing the air before bringing the onslaught. He'd practically danced under the pelting storm, thankful for the cleansing effects, not caring if he was soaked to the bone. Opening his mouth and tasting fresh water, gurgling it down like mouthwash and rinsing out the foul taste trapped in his teeth, drinking it down deep then, cool and refreshing, life-sustaining.

"Dean?"

He startled back to the present, this day the only day that mattered. His not-so-guardian angel back from his morning reconnaissance. He cast his eyes over the murky shadows surrounding them, the silence welcome and yet unsettling, his gut relaxing into the moment, waiting for an actual threat before tightening again in readiness. He offered the capricious angel a wry smile, tight and forced. "So, what's the word, Watson?"

"I don't understand," Cas solemnly responded. No humor in his voice, no delight in his eyes. His lack of comprehension still as pronounced as when he first interacted with the human. Back to square one.

Another day in Purgatory with no comic relief. None except what the hunter amused himself with. Too weary to voice his annoyance, he roughly whispered, "Cas, whatcha see out there? Anything?" His voice becoming harsher and more guttural as time wore on, both from disuse and from the intense force of his grunts fight after fight. That and the standard lack of moisture leaving his throat feeling like a prickly cactus struggling to survive in the desert until the sky deemed fit to let loose. Another reason why he welcomed the rain when it came.

"Monsters to the north, south and east."

Dean was moving even as he spoke, trekking off on the path of least resistance. With a jaunty lilt to his voice he proclaimed, "Then it's Go West, young man!"

xxx

Weeks of exploring with no break in scenery made him half wonder if they were traveling in circles, the landscape barely changing, each tree looking like the last one and the next. He hated camping, always had. Hated being on his own, separated from his brother. He was glad Sam wasn't here. Best for the kid, even if it wasn't best for him. He was getting used to being on his own though, used to being left behind, used to going solo.

Still, that needy part of him, the part that always wanted to keep his family together, who'd wanted it to be like it used to be, ached for his brother. Thankfully his big-brother-protector side slapped that need down, knowing it was better this way, relieved Sam was safe back in the real world.

At least he prayed he was safe, even if praying went against everything he'd always believed in. Even if God and his pathetic dick angels had forsaken him yet again, a part of him prayed on the off chance. Sam was worth the gamble.

For now it was him and Cas.

Time with Cas was…well, _strange._

In some ways it was the old Cas, the original unaware and unassuming Cas. The guy he could toy with, amusing himself with when boredom took hold. Silently he wished for intimidating Cas, the one that set him back on his heels early on, with threats and that imposing 'angel wrath' mentality before they'd settled into a somewhat comfortable familiarity. He could sure use old Cas now. The guy that could smite all the monsters without breaking a sweat, the heavenly being who wasn't drained of all his angel juice, the fighter who was a fierce warrior of heaven, willing and able to stand beside him in the coming battles. He needed an ally, not the fuzzy, bee-loving, navel-gazing hippie he was saddled with.

More than anything he needed a friend. He wasn't sure how he felt about Cas now, how to resolve all those hurt and angry feelings over what his _friend_ had done…to the world, to heaven…_to Sam_. He thought a lot about what was right and what had gone wrong. How Sam was so forgiving, how he was not. He knew he needed to find balance and gain acceptance, to move past all the crap between them. He tried. Day by day he found himself naturally reverting back to the early days of their relationship, that slow dance of trying to come to terms with each other and find a mutually agreeable understanding.

Every so often Cas would say or do something that brought all the turmoil tumbling back and Dean's gut would tighten and the anger would spike. The angel's peace-love crap didn't help, not when danger and evil were the order of the day. Hell, who doesn't want peace and serenity? Who wouldn't want an end to war and strife? But reality was here and now and the things wanting to kill them weren't so enlightened; so yeah, sometimes Dean's fury erupted. When that happened he walked away.

Not like he could hash out their differences now, not with glow-stick Cas actively avoiding any real confrontation. Dean had always used confrontation as a tool, as the only acceptable means of addressing his frustrations and letting loose his feelings. All that simmering anger and hatred, the burbling rage and dejection, every foul feeling that threatened his enforced calm, bottled up and locked away until a fight or argument offered release. Now he felt like Crowley, and what a horrendous realization that was, because he was right, there was no satisfaction in tangling with a kitten. If he was going to have it out with Cas, if they were finally going to address all their issues, then he needed the angel to engage him, not collect flowers and honey and marvel at the wonders of procreation. The birds and the bees didn't interest the hunter, not here, not now.

The truth was Cas would be teetering on the edge of functionally worthless now if not for a glimmer of his old self. The only angel ability seemingly intact was his ability to zap in and out, to disappear off the radar and reappear at opportune moments. If he possessed any other angel skills, he never let on, preferring to maintain his new view of peace, love and harmony.

"You find anything worth eating out there?" Dean asked. His stomach painfully awake, insistently rumbling. "I don't know" he casually muttered, "…maybe somethin' like a fresh baked pie?" He rolled the word 'pie' off his tongue with a fondness and gentle wisp of longing. He grinned at the thought as he moved effortlessly, light through the brush, his boots avoiding any twigs that might snap, that might signal his approach. He liked to talk, low and mellow, even if it was dangerous. It's what kept him human, the sound of his own voice, the reinforcement that he was more than the beasts he hunted…_or hunted him_. "I'm thinking apple today." His eyes tracked over the forest, squinting as if there was sun in his eyes, an old habit when he concentrated. "Seems like one of these trees could offer up an apple or two."

"And who would bake this pie for you?" Cas solemnly inquired. So void of any humor, of the absurdity and the dream, his angel restraint still painfully evident.

"Ah." Dean smiled, his lips curving up in a blissful smirk. "Redhead. Fiery and feisty. About yea-tall." His hand motioned to about five foot six inches. His grin broadened, his eyes taking on a lustful cast, licking his lips in appreciation. "A warrior. She'd have to be to survive here. But soft too. Smooth skin, a few freckles 'cause, well, freckles are sexy."

"It's good your imagination is so active."

Dean chuckled, dodging past a sweeping branch, stepping over a fallen trunk. Stopping to turn and listen, waiting in silence before resuming to talk, the danger moving on, out of range. "All I got is what's in my head. And I'm good at dreaming." He continued on, his last comment barely more than a thought, low and solemn. "Good at making do."

Covering several miles in a day was standard, depending on the resistance, from both the terrain and the populace. Today was quiet, eerily so. Almost like a conspiracy, trying to lull him into complacency before pounding him down in a bloody assault. Complacency never came, not for a hunter such as he. Not for someone schooled in the ways of evil and conditioned to its truths. Something is always coming, something foul and nasty and deadly. Dean was ready.

He paused, closed his eyes and again listened. The wind rustling the last of the leaves on the trees, the scurry of a small rodent off to his right, the whistle of air being displaced as something huge charged him. He rolled to his left, the beast sailing over him, landing with a thud. Dean bolted upright, his fist tightening along the grip of his blade, thrashing out and drawing blood. It howled. Then it charged again, straight at him, ignoring more slashes to its torso and barreling forward.

The impact was brutal, the wind knocked from his lungs as he went down, his knife knocked free, the thing pinning him beneath it as its jowls opened up and filthy, sharp teeth descended. Two distinct sets, each straining for a taste of his blood. He turned his face away, the grotesque gnashing of teeth inches from his cheek, all his strength needed to keep the beast from ripping his face off as he wedged his arms between them. The slobber and spit drenching him even as he struggled to keep those teeth distant.

Using some hidden reserve he bucked again, flipping them over with him on top, able to then break free. His knife glistened in the dirt, mere inches away. He stretched for it and as soon as he wrapped his hand around the hilt he felt a jolt of power, the knowledge that he would overcome. His intellect and experience directing his movement as he carved into the beast below its breastplate, the one vulnerable spot on this critter. One harsh push of his blade and the creature stilled. With a vengeful twist of the knife he dug in before easing back on his haunches, collecting his breath, resting to recoup his energy before rising. He offered one final gouge into the critter before he drew out his blade, wiping the gray ooze from the wound onto the pelt of its fur.

Standing over his kill he again listened to the silence, the still swallowing him and making the beating of his heart louder, pounding in his chest from the surge of adrenaline. Every fiber of his being on alert. He slowly turned in a full circle, listening, watching. No movement beyond a warm wave of air, a few more leaves gently drifting to the ground. He knew this creature was a solitary hunter; still, he waited, just to be sure. Experience again warning him of the danger of expectations. Never relax, never feel safe. The only one safe here was the one already dead.

"Cas?" The angel was again gone, presumably flittering about again, scoping out the encroaching danger or turning tail and running from the confrontation. Hard to tell, the angel was often gone and lax about the explanation. In exasperation he cried out, "Get your feathery ass back down here." A rustle behind him signaled the return of the angel. He turned to face him, his voice urgent. "We clear?"

"Clear." The angel looked sad, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. His focus lingering on the creature lying dead on the floor of the forest before shifting until he was observing the hunter. "Dean…I'm sorry…"

Cutting in the hunter expressed his mounting aggravation with the endless apologies and refusal to engage. "Yeah, yeah…I know…" In a mocking tone he echoed the angel's objections to fighting, excuses he'd heard far too many times. "You don't fight anymore, you hate confrontation…yeah, I get it…just do me a favor." He locked eyes with Castiel; his own eyes penetrating, digging in. "If I get killed one of these days, just…don't leave me to rot. You burn my ass, you got it? When I'm dead dead, I don't wanna be coming back as some ghoul or vengeful spirit. Not that we know that happens here, but just in case." He started walking again, back on task, trudging on in hopes of finding a door out of Purgatory or an ally or _something_. He wasn't angry when he said it, simply matter-of-fact. "When I'm gone then maybe you won't have a choice in the matter. Sooner or later, Cas, it's gonna come down to kill or be killed. Then what?"

TBC

bjxmas

August 2012

All standard disclaimers apply.

_Thanks for reading, reviews are most welcome._

_Later, B.J._


	2. High Noon

Chapter Two - High Noon

The rest of the afternoon passed by slowly, the two walking side by side in strained silence. It often came to this, nothing to say, each trapped in their own head. No frame of reference for conversation, each focused on something the other couldn't relate to. Dean wanting to attack the silence, wrestle it to the ground and be done with it once and for all, Cas yearning to avoid the potential for conflict.

With time to think, Dean's mind settled on the familiar, the standards of his life. Along with a multitude of other absent comforts, chief among them his brother and his car, he missed his music, missed the distraction it offered. Sometimes he'd hum to himself. Not because he was nervous, like when he flew and it calmed him. More because he needed to remember what it was like to move beyond oneself and the reality of your circumstance. Music had always allowed him an escape and a refuge. A means to tap into more pleasant times and ground himself in who he wanted to be. Music now offering him a bridge to his old life. A ride in his car where driver picks the music and he could delight in annoying his brother with his choices, singing along with abandon. Rolling down endless blacktop, safe within his girl's steel frame, Sam riding shotgun.

"Dean, what are you thinking about?"

He tensed, reacting without thought, pure emotion seeping in, reflexively retreating and locking down, hesitant and wary. He was so damn weary of trying to connect with an angel who was no longer his friend, who wasn't who he used to be…who he _should_ be. Talking with Cas was like talking to a child or a foreigner who lacked the necessary insight to fully comprehend. It was frustrating and pointless. And it hurt to lose what they had, what they'd worked so hard for and been through so much to attain. "Nothing…not thinking about nothin'," he lied.

Cas might be clueless, but he wasn't _clueless_. Somehow he knew. Somehow he always knew, even if he appeared not to. "Why do you shut me out?" The angel appeared hurt. That childlike put-upon scowl twisting his face while his body slumped from the rejection. "Your brows scrunch down and the lines around your eyes deepen when you concentrate."

Shooting him a dirty look, one that combined basic annoyance with marked irritation, Dean scoffed and dodged, practiced in avoidance. "So now you read faces? Good to know." He continued walking, side-stepping a deep crevice, skirting higher up along a ledge beside the mountain path.

The angel continued pressing, needy and steadily persistent. "You've been quiet."

"Yeah? Well, not feeling very chatty."

"You're irritated with me."

Dean chuckled. "Still so perceptive."

Cas sighed loudly, looking away before taking a deep breath and looking back, fixing his eyes on the hunter and proceeding in that doggedly annoying manner of his. "Dean, I can't be what I was."

Pulled taut and stretched to his limit, Dean snapped, biting out his retort with a fierceness that matched this place. "Just stop it, Cas. You can _be_ whatever you want to be. You _choose_ to be this…this…" He threw up his hands, waving them in frustration. He turned and faced the angel, a rigid smile forced into place, lips held tight as he tried to settle his anger. "You…you _have_ a choice here. You _always_ have a choice. You see what's out there. You know what they want. Our blood and guts…our _lives_." His eyes clouded over, the weight and harshness of this place…this _life _sweeping over him. His eyes glimmered with dampness, reflecting the horrors and the loss. Every hurt _there_ in those sensitive orbs, seeping out uncontrolled. The worst of it, the betrayal, the yearning for what they once were to each other and the reality of how far they'd fallen apart, more cutting than the claws that mauled his flesh. That hurt striking deeper. He grimaced, struggling to fight through his feelings, the tick in his jaw undulating as he choked back the pressing hurt and steadied himself. "A choice, Cas," he firmly stated. "You can hide from the fight. Play your little game and _pretend _you're crazy…or you can man-up and get back in there. Your choice." He then stalked off, leaving the angel behind.

As was typical, the angel didn't appreciate being left, never responding well to being chastised. Instead, he poofed out.

"Good…good riddance," Dean yelled. Then, he was alone.

The quiet wasn't comforting. Being alone wasn't what he wanted. Still, he couldn't keep up the charade. Couldn't accept the unacceptable. Couldn't maintain the illusion.

It was what it was. He could deal. Had dealt. Was used to living within the reality of all that's denied.

They'd had blow-ups before. Hissy fits where the angel stalked off and pouted. Times when the hunter just couldn't deal with a new-age Castiel who failed to have his back. Somehow they always ended up back together again, drawn to each other as if they were supposed to be together. It was another thing to ponder. Another cross to bear.

In the meantime, Dean trekked on, deeper into the west. The dark getting darker, the woods feeling nastier, more gritty somehow. Danger present…always present, but seemingly more ready. More able to devour him.

Tension building as time wore on and the forest welcomed him into its deepest bowels.

Hours went by, the misty haze of late afternoon turning into the black of night. Purgatory always got spookier at night. The dark hiding unspeakable horrors, hope receding with the meager daylight. The forest turning even more treacherous, deep shadows willing to conceal the terror until it sprang forth.

He would have considered finding a safe place to wait out the dawn, except there was no safe haven. Not here. He'd normally just hunker down. Find a crevice or protected ledge, a place to make a stand where he could at least put his back against a solid surface to forestall an attack from all sides. With the hairs on the back of his neck tingling on full alert, he knew now was not the time to stop or dally. He could feel them circling, intuitively sense the tightening of the noose. Something was coming…multiples if his spidey-sense was working properly.

His breathing quickened, all his senses fully engaged, every cell in his body ready, poised for the promised assault.

In a strange way danger calmed him, slowing down his mind and helping him focus. All other thought processes shelved as he awaited the attack that was coming. He was well trained, experienced in a fight, confident and sure in his ability. There was no fear, even though he was out-numbered and running on empty. Fear was an empty emotion, worthless in a fight. He might be undernourished and sleep-deprived, but he was still a hunter, still a warrior, still a Winchester. Used to long odds and slim chances.

He continued moving, each step precise, sure upon the forest floor. Listening, waiting…until the time would come for him to react. Honed and ready, locked in survival mode. Existing on instinct.

It wouldn't be much longer. He drew in another deep breath, closing his eyes in anticipation, waiting…waiting…

On edge.

Waiting…listening…_anticipating…_

Time at last trumpeted the moment in a rush of sound and motion. The hunter reacting on impulse, fully immersed in the battle and fighting to survive.

The wave of beasts descended upon him swiftly, a massive assault from opposing sides, crunching him in the middle. He dodged a huge beast, slipping under its charge and causing it to crash into another intent on having him for supper. Their loud squalls at the loss of the human echoed across the mountain as they sparred, bumping and grinding out their frustrations against one another. They soon tired of that battle, shifting focus from each other to again chase their prey. Dean was already engaged with a third beast, grabbing a branch and quickly lighting it, shoving it into the snarling face and watching it ignite, more anguished screams rising above the sounds of battle as the flames consumed it. With the beast distracted, clawing at its burning hide, Dean impaled it with his knife. One quick and deadly thrust before turning to the next beast already charging. That one also falling, followed by the one after, then another and another in quick succession.

Still more came. One creature taking advantage of too many approaching all at once, able to latch on to his right arm just below the elbow, twin claws digging in, slicing down to the wrist as Dean struggled to break free. The hunter twisted in agony, a bone-shattering scream ripped from his lips as blood exploded out, painting the ground red, his arm flailing, then flapping useless at his side. His hand struggled to hold on to his knife, his fingers losing their grip, paralysis welcome at this point, a means to stop the intense agony throbbing beneath his skin. As the wave of pain migrated down into his fingers, his grip slipped, the blade sailing towards the ground in a downward spiral. He pivoted, quick reflexes allowing his left hand to swoop in and catch the falling blade, continuing the turn to face the rampaging creature who'd mangled his arm and was now ready to finish the job, it's teeth gnashing, hungry for more blood. He managed one quick plunge into the beast that spilt his blood before he collapsed backward, breath heavy, teeth locked in a determined sneer. A tree caught him, holding him upright as his legs started to buckle. Sheer will held him vertical, his mind screaming at his legs to hold, to support him…then after a few blessed seconds _to move_. A burst of energy allowed him to push off, teetering for a second before surging forward, back in the fight.

Brawling left-handed, his right limp and lifeless, he forged on. His movements slowing as blood loss drained what strength he had left. Still they came. Still he fought them off. One after the other. His grunts heavy, his heart pounding, his vision beginning to cloud, lashing out with his blade, hoping to find purchase.

Fatigue no match for the adrenaline pumping through the hunter's veins or the need to survive that drove him onward against a tide of monsters dying to take him down. One after the next until a branch snapped behind him and he knew. One moment standing out crystal clear, time pausing as life seemed to slide into slow motion.

A stark instant of clarity before the beast's claws ripped through him.

The moment when he knew this was it.

Luck had run its course. All effort trumped by an unending assault, vicious and brutal and now deadly. His will unable to conquer the frailty of the human body, worn down and broken and so very bloody. He tried, did all he could.

In the end he had nothing left.

A gasp parted his lips as he went down, his knees hitting the rocks hard and he felt a snap of bone in his left calf as it twisted and slipped off at an odd angle. His executioner following him down as the beast continued to tear and rip at his flesh. Blood gushed, sticky and moist. The pain explosive, pure agony ratcheted up to the max. He grunted, utilizing the scream that roared out of him to fuel a last rage against the beast, slicing and gouging, finally finding that one soft spot in a hide made like steel and exploiting it, plunging his blade in deep for the kill.

It landed on top of him, dead weight pinning him beneath it. It's gray blood mixing with his red, an over-powering stench radiating up from the rancid smell of death that entombed them.

He gagged and coughed, needing to break free, not wanting to die lying there in such filth. It took every ounce of strength he had to kick and pound the thing back, to squeeze and squirm and finally break free, groaning from the effort, re-igniting the agony of his wounds and bringing to the forefront how fucked up he truly was.

The unexpected silence of the forest now interrupted by the heaving of his lungs and the painful grunts he couldn't begin to contain, forced out and vocalized like a wounded animal. Each breath bringing more torment, any movement piercing, a surge of pure pain shooting through him.

Somehow he'd either killed all the beasts or they'd given up, left when they thought he was dead. Or maybe this was simply the lull before the final rush. He honestly didn't care why he was alone surrounded by death. But he was. Maybe in their simple minds they knew him to be already dead. All he cared about was they were no longer fighting, no longer poised to kill him, no longer a threat. At least not in this moment…the only moment he could concern himself with. The only moment he had left.

Now the only threat was his injuries. Injuries he was certain were lethal. He wasn't a doctor, but he knew bad. Knew what would heal with time and care and what were last-rites wounds.

He crawled as best he could from the massacre, every breath debilitating, every inch of movement excruciating. But he had to. He had to get away from those creatures, had to find a place to die. Someplace peaceful, serene…someplace that was _his. _

Every breath drawn in and then expelled out was torture. Torture he inflicted upon himself by struggling to survive. It would be so easy to just give in, to give up and allow death to take him. To fade into the dark instead of fighting for the dawn. He was that close to dying, that close to having it all over, once and for all.

He'd be damned to hell all over again if he gave up. Giving up wasn't in his vocabulary, even if it might be the smart move considering his circumstance. Still, he couldn't do it. He wouldn't. He concentrated on modulating his breathing, keeping it even, calming his racing heart, slowing it down. Every frantic beat of his heart pumping out his blood. His body already drained of too much.

His mind instinctively analyzed his situation, cataloging each injury and calculating the odds. The numbers all adding up to one outcome.

Certainty brought a strange calm. Panic never helped and could damn well hurt.

He convinced himself that he might survive. Might see another dawn. Told himself that anything is possible. It was how he'd lived his life, how he now chose to die. He grabbed a fistful of mulch, packing it into the gaping holes in his side and stomach, filling out where the beast had carved chunks out of him. It felt cool and strangely good, like it might actually be helping.

He doubted it. It was too little, too late, a worthless attempt to delay the inevitable.

He was dying. Already dead if he were to be honest about it. Simply awaiting the formality of it.

Settling back against a tree trunk he closed his eyes and drew Sam to his side, warm hands tending his wounds with a field pack, imagining how his brother would ramble on with words of hope and triumph as he always did when anxious about an injury or dilemma, remembering how many hopeless situations they'd dug themselves out of. He could almost hear Sam's voice and feel that care. He drifted, the pain easing, distant…like it was someone else, some other time. Then it turned cold. Not just cool from the moist sod pack, but cold, bordering on frigid. He started to shake, subtle at first, then more pronounced. Slight trembles rolling through him, snaking through his insides and stirring up his guts again.

He heard a flutter of wings and knew the angel was back without opening his eyes. He was too exhausted to respond, to weary to go down that road again. The hand on his shoulder startled him, drawing open his eyes in an unfocused gaze. The edges now smeared, lines undefined. It took too much effort to look, the dark too imposing, the angel too far away, lost in that haze.

It was the voice that penetrated his detachment, pulling him back. A voice mellow and deep, sensitive and unexpectedly soft. "Dean, hold on."

Memories flooded him. Images, moments…_feelings_. His mind was racing again as his heart slowed. A comfort came over him. He wasn't alone. Wasn't going to die all alone, miles from his family. Somehow the strength came to speak. Simple words, sincere intent. "Not going anywhere."

Hands were on him, touching, pressing, _hurting._ With his usual lack of tact the angel assessed the situation. "This is bad."

"Ya think?" It was instinct, pure reaction, what he would have snarked in that other life, back on Earth. The absurdity of it somehow caused Dean to laugh. Definitely a bad idea because it hurt like a sonuvabitch! He shuddered through the pain, stiffening under the touch of the angel still inspecting his wounds, willing him to stop. "Don't, Cas…don't…" he croaked out, his voice trailing off, too much effort required to explain more. Somehow the angel seemed to comprehend and the hands quit poking with one simply coming to rest on his shoulder. That he could deal with, maybe even find comfort in.

"I'm sorry."

Dean's eyes were closed as he struggled to take a breath, opening them to get a last look. The angel truly looked contrite. Cas' eyes now clouded, that nervous twist of his dry lips signally his distress. All anger at the angel and his betrayal seemed to fade, slipping away and filtering out. Too much effort needed to hold on. Finding he didn't want to. Dean's hand reached out and grasped the forearm of his friend, his fingers digging in, holding on. He tried to talk, last words and all, but nothing came. A hoarse grunt all he could muster and then his eyes glistened, refracting light from an unknown source before he shuddered and they drifted closed…

He was slipping away, down an endless path, through a long tunnel, dark and frigid. Almost to the end, feeling rested and at peace, questions and concerns no longer as important, so close…_so close_…almost there… Then something yanked him back yet again. Some longing and need, a hope and a prayer, whispering to him, more promises if he could just hold on. Maybe it was his stubborn streak, the refusal to simply lie down and die, that Winchester compulsion to fight off conventional wisdom. Perhaps it was the angel's voice, rising above the white noise, gripping tight and demanding his return.

"Dean? Dean?" Cas' tone becoming more frantic, louder, more insistent. Beyond needy…_desperate._ "Dean!"

Coughing he opened his eyes, the light too bright, what little light there was. "'m here," he slurred.

"Stay with me. It's almost dawn…just a little longer."

_The morning star always shines brightest before the dawn. _

The thought slipped in, wafting through his mind, a glimmer of…_what_ he couldn't say. His mind fracturing, drifting and shuddering, trying to hold on. _Sammy's play…beaming with pride at his efforts, grinning…laughing. Teasing him after, just gentle nudges, what's expected, big brother's duty. Sam standing tall on that stage…so tall now, gonna get taller… One quote fixed in his mind, the words lingering, meaningful… The reality of death captured in a middle school production. Our Town…our lives… Death…loss…mourning…_

"Dean? You with me?"

Pulled back yet again. Rest forever denied. _Pain…cold…distant feel to his body… Fighting…fighting…battle not over…hold on…hold on… _"Yeah…yeah…'m here," he sputtered. His lips dry and yet clammy, licking them slowly, no moisture, taste of blood, dried and bitter. With great effort he managed to open his eyes, the angel looming over him. Such pained concern, soft gaze, thin lips. "Don't hurt 'nymore," he offered, pulling his lips up in a crooked grimace, trying for a smile…_trying…_

"Good…that's good."

"No…" he grunted out, too much effort and yet he forced himself to finish, "that's bad…"

The angel's head quirked to the side, an almost comical expression blooming across his features. "You _want_ to be in pain?"

"Means you're alive." Every word seemed to take effort he no longer possessed and yet somehow he found the means to speak. Each word a hollow breath, gasped out and surrendered to the night air. His eyes were glassy now, almost fixed, his face still, frozen in a death mask…then another shudder, the voice barely above a whisper. "How long?"

For once the angel seemed to understand, that inexplicable ability to communicate without words resurfacing. He cast his eyes to the east, the dark constant, not yet offering to withdraw. "Approximately thirteen minutes."

"Approximately?" Dean coughed out.

"Give or take twenty seconds."

Dean's lips finally found that smile, wistful and sweet, taking pleasure in the moment. A gentle respite…_his last. _It didn't last long before the smile wavered, slipping off his face as his features relaxed, those normally penetrating green eyes shimmering with moisture as they lost all focus. His voice was breathy, strained, trembling as he hesitantly spoke, each word a struggle and a triumph. "Thirteen minutes…don't seem like much."

"It's not," the angel coaxed, "You can make it."

"Don't think so…not this time." One last shudder raced through him, his back arching in protest before he stilled, his head lulling forward, mouth falling open, eyes drifting closed.

TBC

_Yes, I am truly evil… I don't normally do cliffies like this, but this does seem like a good place for a break…_

_Thanks for reading. Next chapter will post…well, we'll see… I've been having Internet problems, which is why this chapter was delayed. Reviews gratefully accepted._

_Later, B.J._


	3. A New Day

Chapter Three – A New Day

Warmth and comfort greeted him. A huge intake of air sucked in and then expelled out with a fierce whoosh forcing him to consciousness. He gagged, coughing and sputtering, the air tasting fresh and clean, welcome. Moisture was present, the aftermath of a new rain. His lashes fluttered, filtering the dawn as he slowly opened his eyes, easing into a new day. His green eyes were brilliant, shiny and lucid. He startled as his brain engaged and memories resurfaced, looking about with wild eyes, a new day in Purgatory…or else someplace deceptively similar. His hands scrambled to pull up his t-shirt, his belly white, no trace of red. That's when he noticed his right arm was functioning, twisting his forearm and counting off his fingers. Each one moving independently, flexing and able to grip. Every injury that he recalled now healed, a fine scar marking its previous existence. No pain, rested and relaxed…_ready._

"Good. You're awake."

"Cas?" He licked his lips, moisture still within them, making them puffy and soft. He felt clean, like he'd recently taken a bath, swam in a cool lake, or frolicked under an evening storm. He surmised the later, all except the frolicking part. More likely just him lying in the open, the rain washing over him. All evidence of his near-death experience swept away.

"The rains came after you lost consciousness." Cas was frittering away, doing something or other off to the side. He walked over to the hunter, his smile thoughtful, perhaps even a bit triumphant. "I allowed you to sleep…watched over you. You're safe."

"Safe?" One eyebrow cocked up, twisting in a curving line as his forehead wrinkled, his voice deep and guttural. "Safe how?"

"They won't be coming back," Cas replied, still puttering. Dean could finally see he was gathering wood, building a fire. "Not for awhile."

The hunter pulled himself upright from where he was stretched out on the ground, grass and leaves gathered together to form a soft mat beneath him. His fingers reflexively pressing on his abdomen, the reality of miraculous healing still confounding even though he knew the drill: a new dawn, a new start…_still alive. _The angel's comment finally registered, his curiosity piqued. "What you said…'bout them not coming back. What'd you mean by that?" His face scrunched up, the memory of the pain of his injuries and those final moments vivid, the certainty of death still present. All at odds with what he was now experiencing. "How'd I survive? I was a goner."

"Obviously not."

"But _how?"_

"It wasn't as bad as you thought." Cas paused for a moment, his next words clear and forceful. "You're strong…you held on." He turned his back to the hunter, his actions telling. His mood painfully quiet, distracted and deceptive, focused on building his fire and cleaning up the area, answering with a curt reply and moving on. Still practiced in averting confrontation.

Dean intently watched him, waiting for him to explain further but he didn't. Climbing to his feet and stretching his legs, the hunter started walking the perimeter. It was the blood he noticed first, well…not blood, gray ooze. On rocks and fallen trees that weren't familiar. One particularly gnarly-looking tree definitely quite memorable with its almost pornographic form. Clearly something he'd never before seen, something he would have taken advantage of to crack wise about. Gray ooze was whipped across it like an abstract painting, dripping down suggestively. The signs of battle clear: scuffles in the dirt, rocks turned over, and yet no corpses, no rotting monster flesh. "Cas? What happened here?"

"Nothing." The angel turned away, scurrying off to attend to some other minor detail…running, avoiding conflict.

Sucking in a deep breath, turning in a complete circle to take in the scene, Dean's eyes widened, his gut tightening. "Cas…what'd you do?" When he got no answer he purposely walked over to the cliff nearby, a trail of something being dragged through the dirt leading the way, gazing down over the side to a pile of bodies below. More bodies than he had killed. Twice, maybe three times the number, some a different species. Monsters he'd not engaged lying at the top of the heap, their eyes burned out. When he returned to where Cas had started the fire he silently sat down opposite him, eyes again fixed upon the angel.

Cas was sitting on a log staring into the flames, his features still and pensive, the only motion coming from the light of the flames dancing across his face. "They came just before dawn," he explained, his voice steady as he recounted the event. "Smelled your blood."

Silently nodding, Dean's throat swallowed, the moisture suddenly dried up. He cleared his throat, offering a soft gasp as he asked, "How you doin'?"

Cas looked up, that comical quirk of his head his only reaction. "Doing?"

Sensitive eyes maintaining contact, Dean said the word, the one word he was never in the mood for saying but he knew he needed to. "_Feel,_ Cas…how you feeling?"

"Feel?" Cas repeated, that familiar puzzlement set upon his features. His eyes staring at the hunter but maintaining their distance, that separation that angels always strived for. Whatever emotion he might be feeling locked down and inaccessible.

"Yeah, _feel…_" Dean licked his lips, all concern for his friend there on his face. His friendship now more important than his distaste for emotional talks. Tapping into that tenacity that had always served him so well, he pressed on. "About fighting…_killing_…y'know, Cas…after the whole Woodstock peace-love crap?"

"It was _necessary_." The word was drawn out, thoughtful and practical and not at all what the hunter was getting at.

Dean closed his eyes for a second, tunneling inward, taking a deep breath before proceeding. His eyes flooded with empathy, glimmering in light of what had gone down. His words were soft, low and caring. "Did you know I was going to make it?"

Cas again looked sad, somehow a bit smaller, pulled in and reflective. "No. I thought as you did…your wounds…" The silence unable to hide the truth of what they'd both thought, the reality of what they'd _known._

"Yeah…"

It was as if all the months of being apart were erased and they were in tune with one another again. Both thinking the same thought, feeling that same loss, expecting the very worse from Dean's injuries. Both fully expecting he would die.

"So why didn't you just poof out and leave me?" Dean couldn't hide the annoyance in his voice, unaccustomed to someone else's sacrifice…especially someone sacrificing for _him. _When he got no answer his anger spiked, tempered only by his dread and a tinge of desperation. "Cas! We both thought I was dead…so _why?"_

"Because you're my friend."

The comment hit hard. All that he'd wanted and hoped for handed to him, but at a cost. His _friend_ bearing the burden. Scrambling to understand, to put it all in perspective and truly know what happened, Dean pushed the angel to divulge more. "But I was dead." His voice broke a little, all the longing and hurt pleading for understanding. "We both knew it."

Looking up, locking eyes with the hunter and forming a sincere smile, the angel broke the tension. "We were wrong."

That forced a chuckle, a relieved damn-if-miracles-don't-happen grin. "Yeah…glad about that." He allowed the moment to settle, to just hang there undisturbed while two old friends sat quietly around a fire. The moment couldn't last forever, not with a hunter trained in digging for the truth. Half the story remained untold and Dean still needed to know. As difficult as it was to continue, it would be more difficult to not. "All this talk about not fighting and you just decided to hell with it?" The angel was quiet, so Dean pressed on. "I've been in tight spots before y'know and you never…"

"Never this bad," Cas cut in, struggling, starting and stopping, "…never…" After almost a minute of dead air, their eyes lingering with no words spoken, allowing the silence to do their communicating, the angel finally broke the still and continued. "I didn't want to lose you." The weight of what he was feeling seemed too intense to hold back, at last breaking through with his final confession. "I didn't want to be alone."

Dean's reaction was filled with compassion and resignation, a simple nod indicating he fully understood the sentiment. "No one does."

xxx

After packing up what little they had, they took off further into the West, still in search of something to ease the horrors of Purgatory. On his most recent walkabout Cas had found new terrain, an end to the forest, leaving the trees and mountains behind and discovering the flatlands…_wide-open spaces_. It offered hope, more hope on top of Dean's miraculous survival. The tension that had dogged them over the past year and in the early days of Purgatory now seemed at an end. Not that it couldn't reappear, after all, Purgatory ain't a walk in the park and it would be easy to get testy here, easy to let differences or stress pit them against one another. Still, it was nice to think they were in this together.

Dean was humming, some ballad that Sam would probably tease him about if they were listening to the radio and he'd wrongly assume it was a song Dean would detest, shocked and appalled to find out his dirty little secret, that big brother knew all the words. Truth was, Dean's taste in music went beyond heavy metal and classic rock. He even enjoyed a country song on occasion. The rockabilly ones, songs about Mama's and outlaws and fast wheels. Things he could relate to. Hard lives and hard men, doing what they had to do to survive.

"We're liable to encounter new monsters out here," Cas casually observed, "Things that avoided the forest."

"Yeah," Dean replied, his eyes looking up to the sky. Enjoying the view, something besides trees overhead, no longer trapped in the shadows. Open air, even if it wasn't the freshest he'd ever encountered, now that the effects from the rain had dried up. Still, it was something. "Whatever's out there, we'll find a way to gank it." His boots made a crunching sound, unavoidable with the land littered with strange cone-shaped objects, something akin to pinecones except there weren't many trees around. He squinted into the late afternoon sun, more sun than they'd encountered since they'd been deposited here in Purgatory. Enough that he might have to worry about sunburn, yet another reason to curse this place. "Yeah, well…we figured out the Fire Swamp and the R.O.U.S.'s…can't be that difficult." He genuinely smiled, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling and those pinpoint dimples flashing. He felt relaxed, almost happy, as happy as a man stuck in Purgatory could be. Enjoying the calm before the next storm.

Looking perplexed the angel fell into those familiar patterns, again lamenting he couldn't appreciate the hunter's humor. "I don't understand those references."

"Princess Bride…Rodents Of Unusual Size." Dean's grin broadened. He could enjoy the monstrous size of those critters now…now that he wasn't fighting for his life against them. He was determined to enjoy the moment, with Cas presenting an acceptable target for his fun with Sam unavailable. He shook off his longing for his brother, accepting his fate for now and making the best of it. "I'm obviously the Man in Black so you must be Buttercup." Sadly, the insult didn't work half as well with an oblivious angel incapable of getting the joke. It was a good thing Dean was a solitary kind of guy when the need arose, used to making do on his own…even if he was no longer alone. Some things they could share while some were destined to be enjoyed as only he could. They still had a long way to go to get Cas back on the human side of understanding.

Cas was the one to suggest they make camp for the night, lingering concern over Dean's previous injuries probably his motivation.

"Good as new, Cas. You know the drill, new dawn, new me." He smirked, offering up that huge victorious grin that insisted he owned the world…or was intent on making you believe he did. "But, y'know, if you're tired…"

"Yes," the angel quickly replied, "I'm tired."

"Uh-huh…"

They were in an open clearing, plenty of room around them to hear if anyone approached in the night. It was the best prospect they'd encountered since they'd left the forest hours before. Dean plopped down on a grassy spot, leaning back against a protruding rock and crossing his long legs at the ankles, stretched out before him. He clasped his hands behind his head, again looking up at the sky. No clouds. Not your standard Earth blue, more azure, definitely with a touch of deep purple to liven things up. Quite possibly it was the only beautiful sight they'd encountered in Purgatory. He pondered that thought, puzzling over what horrors it might secretly hold. Comfort and beauty were strange concepts for this place, definitely an illusion waiting to be shattered. Evil the only promise you could depend on.

Cas wandered around a bit longer, circling, picking out his spot. Finally settling next to the hunter, sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Neither appeared sleepy, rather that edge was back, the unspoken conversation still hanging between them. With Sam not there it fell on Dean to get this ball rolling. "So…you really okay?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" That perplexed expression returned, the fixed jaw, sincere eyes squinting, a casualness about him that masked what had to be simmering beneath the eerie calm.

Dean knew about repression, knew the toll it took, knew how Sam always pressed him to talk about it and, truth be told, how he often felt marginally better after their little roadside chats. How sharing with his brother somehow lifted the burden and helped ease the pain, as much as anything possibly could. Maybe it was simply knowing he had someone on his side, someone who cared. He missed the sharing, missed caring for his brother and worrying about him, missed that closeness. Cas was here, Sam wasn't. Cas had saved him. Saved him by going against his beliefs. Dean also knew the struggle to reconcile opposing beliefs. Yeah, he could relate. Much like they had when they both railed against deadbeat dads. Bookends…compadres…_brothers_. Not like him and Sam, no one could ever replace Sam, but it was good, all he had here. A relationship that again mattered. "Cas, back there…you killed…like a dozen…"

"Monsters," Cas interjected, helpfully filling out his sentence.

"Yeah."

"They were going to kill you…" Cas quirked his head comically as he added, "Possibly eat you." Then he simply stared at the hunter, all emotion withheld. The angel still so detached, so distant…so _angel-like._

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" His forehead wrinkled, his thin lips pulled tight. He released a soft sigh. "I don't understand." Cas actually seemed to be trying. Trying to comprehend, trying to 'get' what the hunter meant.

"I just…" Dean paused, this was harder than he thought, more emotional than he intended. "I'm sorry you had to, y'know…" He was solemn as he released a low gasp. The awkward moment soon morphing into a nervous chuckle as he quickly added, "Glad you did 'cause, well, wouldn't be here otherwise…so thanks."

"You're welcome."

The night was peaceful, so unlike the previous tense nights in the woods. The grasslands were definitely not as spooky as the forest, not that they couldn't be just as deadly. This was Purgatory after all, not a picnic.

They were each lost in their own thoughts, immersed in separate memories, a means to hold on to who they were back on Earth, when Dean noticed Castiel tilting his head, intently listening. His hand immediately drew out his knife, ready, poised for battle. "Cas? What is it?" he whispered.

"Bees," was the answer. The angel rose then, taking a few steps as he continued to listen.

"Bees?" Dean's mind immediately veered off to all the horror movies he'd watched as a kid, assuming bees in Purgatory had to mean man-eating behemoths the size of a bus. He sprang to his feet, his left hand reaching into his pocket for his lighter, flicking it open in readiness. Hoping fire would do, because he sure as hell didn't want to get close enough to use his knife. With terror rooted in precaution he asked, "They coming? How soon?"

"What?" Cas turned, calm and relaxed, no indication danger was closing in.

Whispering more urgently, Dean stepped closer to the angel, listening even though he couldn't hear a damn thing. "They gonna attack or what?"

"Attack?" Castiel chuckled, a sly smile forming on his lips. "No. They're just bees, Dean. They're making honey."

The hunter froze for a moment, digesting the information before relaxing his grip on his knife, a hopeful smile spreading out as his lips smacked. "Honey? Like…sweet, syrupy and tasty?"

"I would assume so."

"Well, let's find out." He managed to take one step before Cas stopped him.

The angel's hand reached out with a gentle hold on Dean's arm, just a cautionary brush. "We best wait 'til dawn. They won't take kindly to being interrupted now. They're all settled in for the night. In the morning I'll be able to collect some honey for you."

Cocking his left brow and flashing those dimples, Dean smiled, the thought pleasing, even if it did make his stomach growl in anticipation tonight. "You promise?"

"Yes."

The very idea of bees in Purgatory brought up more questions, more possibilities. Offering hope that there might be other touches of home out there, buried deep and hidden by all the danger and strife this place promised.

Of course bees didn't bring warm fuzzy memories for Dean, not with the whole naked Cas sprawled across the hood of his car image still stuck in his head. He shook back that memory, too vivid and disturbing. He couldn't help but remember peaceful hippie Cas, jabbering on about his honey and communing with the bees and nature and all that jazz. He had to wonder if the Cas he was with now would revert back. He sure as hell hoped there would be no taking off of clothes and frolicking nude in the fields. That's a sight he'll pass on…_thank you very much!_ Still, he couldn't resist asking. "Hey, Cas? Can you communicate with these bees…like you did back on Earth?"

"Communicate?"

"Yeah…y'know…chatting 'em up and all?"

Cas smiled, just a slight upturn of his lips and a barely registering glimmer in his eyes. Subtle but real. "I much prefer chatting with you, Dean." Dean raised an eyebrow, remaining silent as the angel continued, "Conversationally, bees are lacking."

That garnered a huge grin, a self-satisfied smirk from the hunter. He plopped back on the ground, ready to settle in for the night, ready to dream of sweet honey dripping off his fingers and filling his stomach.

The angel seemed to be contemplating more, turning a thought over in his head before speaking again. Somehow appearing to want to set the record straight, come clean and start over. "Dean…what I said earlier, about not wanting to do this alone."

Dean arched a brow, listening, waiting, all focus now on his friend. "Yeah?"

"It's not just being alone…what I mean is, it's you. You're my friend and I didn't want to lose _you._"

Dean rolled the thought around in his head, remembering the long journey they'd shared, from Perdition to Purgatory, with all stops in between. He still found it hard to forget, even harder to forgive, but he knew they'd turned a corner, gotten back on track, somehow found that common ground. "Yeah, me too."

The End

bjxmas

September 2012

All standard disclaimers apply.

_Thanks for reading. I'm trying really hard now to find that middle ground between the angst that I just naturally relate to concerning Dean and the strength and reserve he is so apt to display on the show. I'm striving for realism, for the truth of how Dean Winchester responds to his life. I hope I'm getting there._

_Now that we've seen the first episode of Season Eight, I think my version of Purgatory holds, as a representation of their earliest time there. I hope Cas and Dean came to some understanding before Cas disappeared on him and Dean got grittier and the road turned even harsher. I'm sure the real toll of Purgatory is the unrelenting danger and the constant chase to stay alive. As Dean put it, the purity of it, fighting for your life on a very primal level._

_I've started another series of 100 word drabbles on Dean's reflections of Purgatory. Join me there if you want more of my version of Purgatory. I'll be posting that series soon…sooner if I ever get my Internet restored._

_Comments and discussion are always most welcome. Until next time, take care, B.J._


End file.
